


449. lifeline

by piggy09



Series: The Sestre Daily Drabble Project [273]
Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Childhood, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-12 20:50:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10499214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piggy09/pseuds/piggy09
Summary: The third thing Sarah tells Siobhan is that she’s already got a family, and it’s her sister, and Sarah’s going to run away and find her, and she doesn’t need Siobhan at all.





	

Tonight is Sarah’s sixth birthday, and it is the first night she has ever spent alone. She’s been crying all night but now she’s at the point past tears, where her face is a hot tight ache and her whole body feels like it’s going to float away. She’s curled in on herself in bed as tight as she can possibly go, but it doesn’t feel like someone lying next to her at all.

When they’d taken Helena away Sarah had yelled after her that she would find her. She’d said _I promise_. You can’t break a promise to your sister, but: here Sarah is, and it’s their birthday, and it’s only her birthday, and she’s alone. The space where Helena should be one hollow ache.

She climbs out of bed, tiptoes down the stairs, sits in front of the oven. She’s so cold. It’s harder to be brave in the dark; when it’s light out Sarah can scream and kick and spit at any foster parent who thinks that they’re her family, as if Helena _isn’t_. When it’s light out Sarah can try running away. In the dark, in this house echoing with distant clock-ticks, she is mostly just terrified.

The oven clock is neon green, and it says 11:59 in harsh light. Sarah sits cross-legged in front of it and picks at her cuticles, patiently, until they start bleeding. Then she keeps going. What else does she do?

12:00. Sarah is six years old. Happy birthday to—

* * *

The first thing Sarah tells Siobhan is that Siobhan isn’t her mother. The second thing she tells Siobhan is that Siobhan isn’t her family, and neither is the snot-nosed brat clinging to her leg. The third thing Sarah tells Siobhan is that she’s already got a family, and it’s her sister, and Sarah’s going to run away and find her, and she doesn’t need Siobhan at all.

Sarah has given this speech to several foster parents by now. Siobhan doesn’t do any of the usual things: yell, or laugh, or tell Sarah she’ll be alright on her own and anyways she’s a part of _this_ family now. Siobhan just looks thoughtful, which makes it worse. Sarah hates when adults pretend to listen to her. It makes anger a sharp sick thing in her chest, and then she shoves it out into her fists, and then – well. Then adults stop pretending that they don’t hate her, and they get back to the yelling. Which is good.

Sarah storms upstairs and crumples on the bed she’s been given. It’s _shit_. Shit shit shit. Shit. She bounces on it, once, angrily; the springs squeal and groan. Shit shit _shit_ shit shit. All of Sarah’s things in a garbage bag by the bed, and not even many things to own: a few shirts, some underwear. Her whole life. She wants to break the bed, but she’s learned better. If she breaks it who knows where she’ll sleep tonight.

Instead Sarah flops onto her back and stares at the ceiling. One foot on the ground, idly kicking at a bedpost. The ceiling is cracked, and dingy, and Sarah hates it here, and Sarah is so homesick it feels like she’s actually physically sick.

That kid from before is walking into the room; Sarah can hear him mouth-breathing. Twerp. She doesn’t look up from the ceiling but gives the bedpost one particularly vengeful kick. The kid – what was his name? Freddy? Franklin? Felix? – sits on his bed, says: “Um.”

“What.”

“Did you _really_ have a twin sister.”

Sarah sits up and stares at him; he withers into a small little kid-ball, all wide eyes and flopping overlarge sleeves. All of Sarah’s anger goes, fast: it’s not his fault, he’s just as stuck here as she is.

“I have one _now_ ,” Sarah says. “Her name’s Helena. She’s good at drawing and origami and she laughs weird. Likes candy. And _Cinderella_. She knows all the words to all the songs.”

Sarah looks down and picks at the skin by her fingernail. She hopes desperately that the silence is Felix considering these facts and not waiting for more. Sarah doesn’t have any more facts, really. This is all she has left: a garbage bag full of one-note songs. Candy, Cinderella, one blurry memory of Helena drawing them as stick figures holding hands. She hasn’t heard Helena laugh in two years. She has no _idea_ what it sounds like.

“She sounds cool,” says Felix. “I bet S is gonna find her. She’s good at finding kids who got lost.”

“She’s not gonna find her,” Sarah says. “No one wants twins. That’s why I have to go ‘n look for her, meathead. Y’got it? It’s just her and me. She’s out there somewhere, and she’s scared, and _I_ have to find her.” Her fingers are bleeding again. She does not hope.

“You don’t have to do it alone, Sarah,” says Felix. Suddenly Sarah hates his eyes again. They’re so big. You can see all of his feelings in them, every idiot child-hope.

“Yeah I do,” Sarah says, lying back down and rolling onto her side. Viciously she puts her boots on the bed. Like it can get any worse, or dirtier, or less like home. On the last night – they didn’t know it was the last night but Sarah knows it now, that it was the Last Night – Sarah had a bad dream, and crawled into Helena’s bed. Helena was still asleep, but the sound of her breathing was enough. Sarah never tells anyone this, but more than anything she hates being alone.

The window in here has a loose screen. In the morning Sarah is going to kick it out, and go outside, and start looking for Helena. She doesn’t know where her sister is but she’s sure she’ll be able to feel it, like a string tying them together. Helena must be so scared out there. Helena must be so lonely, without her sister there to help her sleep.

Sarah isn’t crying, or anything; she’s just hugging her stomach, because it hurts. Home: sick. But she isn’t crying. She’s listening to the sound of her own breathing, the way it rasps and hiccups in and out, and if she listens hard enough she can’t hear Felix’s breathing at all. Just her own breathing. Sarah closes her eyes tight and climbs inside of it, all the way down through her lungs and to her heart. The beat of it is familiar: double-time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please kudos + comment if you enjoyed! :)


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